Nothing worse than being criss-crossedwith scars you see and those you don't,some moss-eyed gargoyle in the mirrorhaving so little to dowith your former cool stream self.

So cover your love with cloudy comforter,turn the dark down a few notches, and be quiet about it, please--nothing worsethan those baby sounds from your throatstaking animal pleasure from time.

How dare you strut that mothball stuffacross our dance floor--don't you knowwhy your babies' tongues are pierced?Can't you read the ink on our icebright skin?

No one wants the blood lecture,the arid anecdote. Don't you rememberthis radiator hiss of wisdomin dusty afternoon? Nothing sadder than a wrinkled hipster, still groping the lingo hopefully, fingering the clothes, doing that clunk-kneed cha-cha in full view.

Don't be spilling your mess of coffee grounds and apple peels in our sun. . . . You should practice safe sex, Sir, in the dumpsterof your mind, all overripe with vocabulary.